The Bond of Brothers
by brynerose
Summary: An untimely illness dangerously complicates the brothers' latest hunt, but it also brings them together in a way they haven't been for a long time.  Ridiculous brotherly shmoop, even for me!  But good ol' Winchester action and badassery, too.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Wow, I don't usually communicate this much up front! (those of you who have been following my stories recently may have noticed I'm publishing a lot right now) Maybe I'm losing my touch, feeling like I have to clarify so much more...feel free to comment in reviews ^-^**

**Anyway, a quick blurb about my basis for this story-I don't claim to have incredible medical knowledge. I've admitted this before. However, this time, I have pretty decent personal experience to draw on. Both my little sister and I had serious bouts of illness when we were young, and my descriptions are based on how those illnesses manifested. They're not necessarily typical. But I promise they happened in real life. End whiny author justification. Enjoy!**

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><p>It didn't take long for Sam to pack what they'd need, and he quickly became impatient. Dawn was well passed, but Dean was still asleep.<p>

"Up an' at'em, sunshine. We've got a hunt, remember?" he announced, striding back to the bedroom of their motel suite. The bed that was still occupied groaned and shuffled.

"Go 'way. I feel like crap," came the muffled voice from the paisley sheets.

"Really? There's a werewolf killing hot chicks and you want to stay in bed?"

"You bet your ass, 'sunshine.'"

Sam flipped the covers off the bed. Dean, in his t-shirt and boxers, curled up against the exposure. He _did_ look kind of pale. Then again, he'd gone a little heavy on the booze the night before. "Come on. We've only got a couple days before we lose the full moon, and I found his trail going into the woods."

Still grumbling, Dean rolled out of bed and got ready. Sam sat by their packs, coffees on hand, thumbing his scarred palm to try to distract him from his irritation. Of all the times to not be himself, Dean had to pick the height of a case?

"If I puke while we're out there, I'm blaming you," his older brother growled as he emerged.

They picked up the trail easily enough—snow layered the ground from the day they arrived. Clawed footprints and blood spatters marked the way.

"Think one of us got him?" suggested Dean.

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. He also had a good chunk of his last victim. Remember? What's with you today?"

"It's too early and I feel like crap, I told you."

"You really should cut back on the beer when we're working."

"You always pick the most ungodly ways—oh wait, you have a history of being ungodly in general."

"Haha." Sam knelt, to study a patch of bloody snow next to a tree. Blood and fur stuck to the rough bark around shoulder height. "You may be right, though. He stumbled here. Probably wounded in the side, throwing his balance off."

"Great. Now we're chasing a werewolf who's specifically pissed with us," Dean remarked.

They zigzagged through the woods. Here and there, summer cabins hunkered among the trees, closed for the winter. With each one that proved clear, uninhabited, Sam felt his frustration build again. It was nearly lunchtime. No sign of anything living besides themselves and a few birds and squirrels. Moreover, Dean was definitely struggling to keep up.

"Dude, you roofie yourself or something?"

"Shut up. You've had enough bad days of your own where I had to drag your ass along." Dean might have said more, but caught his boot on something under the snow instead. The closest tree kept him from falling headlong to the ground.

Sam forgot his annoyance for a moment, springing to help his brother. That's when he realized Dean's skin was burning. His face had gone from pale to ashen, and his breathing was uneven.

"Dean, I am so sorry! I should have been quicker to suspect—I mean, you don't usually act like—," Sam sputtered.

"Skip the apologies; just get me to somewhere I can lay down," Dean chided him.

The next cabin was a few hundred feet away. Sam wrapped one of Dean's arms over his own shoulders to support him over the distance. Propping Dean at one of the trees closest to the cabin, he checked the area out. No werewolf. No signs that anyone had been there recently. He picked the lock and retrieved Dean.

The interior was musty. Only a cot, a set of bunk beds, a table, chairs, and a fireplace with a threadbare loveseat furnished the old building. Two doors at the far end had to be the bathroom and some kind of closet.

"Very 'Little House," Sam muttered. He helped Dean take off his pack and lay down on the cot, then bolted the door. "You should probably eat something. Might help the dizziness." He started pulling the supplies out of the packs.

Dean shook his head. "I don't think I could keep anything down. God, I'm burning up."

"I need you to drink some water, at least," insisted Sam. He watched carefully while Dean complied. Meanwhile, Sam himself used some of his own water to wet down a bandana, which he put on Dean's forehead. His older brother didn't even remark about it.

The whole scene was pretty ironic. So often Dean was the one taking care of Sam, patching up Sam, looking after Sam. Sam felt a little awkward being the one in the hot seat now. Not only that, but it reminded him of when they were kids, and Dean had ended up in a similar position with him. He knew the story well from all the times Dean told it.

"_Keep up, Sammy. Dad doesn't want us out by ourselves for very long."_

"_I'm trying, Dean. I don't feel good."_

"_Stop being a baby."_

"_When's Dad coming back? Why couldn't I just stay in the hotel?"_

"_Because I'm not leaving you alone anywhere. Go get the milk." Thirteen-year-old Dean grabbed a cart as they entered the convenience store, and headed for the grocery aisle. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, canned fruit…all the usual boring stuff Dad told them to get when he disappeared for several days. He double-checked how much money they had before grabbing some ships. Eight-year-old Sam showed up with the milk and a package of cookies, looking hopeful. _

"_Please?"_

_Dean sighed. "Fine."_

"_I really don't feel good, Dean," Sam complained._

"_But you want cookies? Come on, we're almost done," grumbled Dean. They paid for the food, and hefted the bags across the street to the hotel. Dean busied himself with putting cold stuff in the old box refrigerator. "Are you going to bring those bags over here or what?"_

_A loud _thud_ answered him._

"_Sammy?"_

_Still by the door, Sam had collapsed. Groceries rolled out next to him._

"_Sammy!" Half-panicked, Dean tried to bodily lift his little brother, pulling him over to the couch. Sam's face was on fire, his hair plastered with sweat. He didn't move._

_Dean mentally ran through everything their father had taught him about first aid. How to take care of a fever... something cold. The ice machine sat two rooms down from them. Dean filled the ice bucket, wrapped some cubes in a towel, and placed it along Sam's face and neck. Then he searched their first aid kit for a thermometer. Dean tugged his brother's shirt halfway off, and pressed the little glass stick under Sam's bared arm. He remembered Mom doing that when he was little._

_The tiny red line was hard to find, but when he did, it reached well past the 100 mark. He added an ice towel to Sam's chest. Back at the first aid kit, he looked through all the medications trying to find something that would help…_


	2. Chapter 2

"Take this," Sam instructed, thrusting two pills into Dean's hand. "It'll bring your fever down. So, that, dizziness, and nausea. Anything else?"

Dean attempted not to spill water as he took the meds. "Everything just hurts. Like I just wrestled with a demon or something. I can't remember the last time I felt this bad. Well, when I haven't had my ass kicked by a demon, I mean."

"And it just…happened?"

"Pretty much. I felt a little off yesterday, but nothing like this. It just sorta hit me. Sucky timing, huh?" Dean stretched back with one arm covering his eyes and the compress.

"You're telling me," grumped Sam.

"Do we got anything stronger than what I just choked down?"

"It hasn't even had time to take effect yet."

"You 're not answering the question."

"Not really, not for this. I'd have to leave you here and hike back." Sam bit his lip at the realization.

"Leaving me wide open to Mr. Fur 'n' Fangs out there before you could get back. Great."

"Try to sleep for now. Maybe that'll help you kick it."

As Dean drifted off, Sam made a round of checks through the windows. All clear. Not that he expected much excitement at this time of day. They still had a fair stretch of daylight left. Would Dean even need stronger meds? Or what if he needed more than that? What if Sam left to go get meds, and Dean got worse, without anyone to help him?

_Whoa, get a hold of yourself_, the more rational side of Sam's brain kicked in. _Dean's not dying!_ And yet when he turned around to look at his brother, Dean appeared to be horribly plague-ravaged. Sam dug his thumb into his scarred palm until the image disappeared.

To pass the time, he looked up a simple building map of the nature park on his cell phone. He could roughly trace their path from the motel, ticking off which cabins they had already checked, and determining where they sat now. Roughly a third of the buildings covered. Judging by the trail's trajectory, one of the cabins furthest in was likely to be the endpoint.

Sam hurriedly looked up the park's phone number. Some of the cabins were family-leased, and others open for vacation rental. A property inspector should be able to get the names of anyone who booked out here. Especially if that inspector had evidence of illicit activity occurring in one of those cabins.

But the park wouldn't cooperate. Someone with a cabin in Sam's target area was influential enough to intimidate the park staff. Anyway, more than one client paid in cash, in advance. The more Sam got yanked around on this hunt, the more certain he was that those remote cabins indeed hid some ugly secrets. He pitched his phone at the loveseat cushions.

Dean didn't stir until well into the afternoon. His fever fluctuated, but his breathing became worse.

"Sammy…Sam?"

"Right here, Dean." Sam helped his older brother sit up enough to drink some water. "Any change?"

"Oh I'm just peachy. I love a good fever and ache in the middle of a winter hunt," Dean mumbled back. At least his humor was still fully functioning.

"Let me get a fresh compress. And you really should eat something."

Dean grimaced. "I don't wanna. My stomach feels like when old Yellow Eyes screwed with it…"

They lapsed into silence; Sam moved the cold compress around Dean's face and neck. Outside, snow began to fall. From time to time, Dean would let loose a wet, hacking cough.

"You think this is what you had way back when?" Dean asked after a couple minutes of this routine.

"Huh?"

"When we were kids…you kept complaining about feeling sick, and I didn't believe you until it got real bad."

"I dunno, maybe," shrugged Sam.

"I'm sorry about that, Sammy…"

"Hey, you took care of me. That counts for something."


	3. Chapter 3

"_Dean…"_

_The pitiful voice from the couch scared Dean all over again. He had tried calling their dad repeatedly after Sam's collapse, to no avail. Now he had to do something._

"_Dean…?"_

"_I'm here, Sammy. What's up?"_

"_It's so hot, Dean. Can I have some water?"_

"_Sure you can." Dean jumped up to fill a glass, grabbing an old straw from their last fast food stop. Sam's face was still flushed with fever, so he also put fresh ice in the towels. "How's that?"_

_Sam tried to smile. "A little better. My head hurts. And it hurts when I breathe."_

"_You're probably just hungry after sleeping through dinner."_

"_But I don't feel hungry."_

"_You should eat something anyway. Here." Dean opened a granola bar for Sam, who took a timid bite._

"_When's Dad coming back?" he asked._

"_Soon, Sammy. I called him to tell him you're sick. He'll be here before you know it." This was a boldfaced lie, of course. Since their dad hadn't answered, Dean couldn't tell him what had happened. But he couldn't let Sam down like that. Not when he already felt so bad._

_Sam took another bite. "I wish he was already back…" Suddenly he hurtled to the edge of the couch, where the trash can was, and threw up._

"_Sammy!"_

_Dean tried to be supportive as his little brother retched uncontrollably. Unfortunately, his efforts couldn't amount to more than rubbing Sam's back. Once Sam had a chance to stop heaving and breathe, Dean grabbed him and the glass of water. "C'mon, to the bathroom. You can at least rinse your mouth out, and if there's any more, we can take care of it right."_

"_Everything hurts, Dean," whimpered Sam. His clammy face lolled against Dean's arm._

"_It's okay, it's gonna be okay," Dean said, to himself as much as to his brother. He didn't know how to handle this. Sam's condition scared him. He found himself wishing their dad would just walk through the door right then. _He _could fix this. Dean was just a kid! And Sam was all the more miserable because they didn't know what to do._

Sam knew what he had to do. He didn't like it. But Dean was worsening, quickly. His best chance, with the way they lived, was to probably get some kind of broad-spectrum antibiotics. That meant hiking back to town. Alone. With darkness fast approaching. With a werewolf stalking the same woods.

He set about putting up whatever protection he could give the cabin, which was unnervingly little. Each of them had a good supply of silver bullets and a silver knife. Hopefully, their quarry would prefer the challenge of a mobile threat.

"Hey, Dean." He gently shook his brother's shoulder. Den opened his eyes, groggy. "Dean, I'm gonna need to run to town and back."

"No, it's crazy to do that now, by yourself…" Dean groaned.

"I don't have much of a choice. What we have on hand isn't cutting it. If it is like what I had, you'll need some strong antibiotics."

"Be careful. I won't be there to save your ass." An attempt to laugh brought on another ugly coughing fit.

"Cut that out. Here, stay propped against the pillows so you can breathe okay. Here's some fresh water. I made sure your gun's loaded. Sit tight." Sam put everything in Dean's reach before heading for the door.

"Hey Sammy?"

Sam looked over his shoulder. Pale and sweaty, Dean gave him a thumbs up.

"Good luck. Gank the son of a bitch for me."

"Sure."

_Everything felt surreal for Dean after the long night and morning between the living room and the bathroom. He glanced at Sam, who had fallen asleep at last on the couch. They were both exhausted. Dean was still on edge, waiting for the next wave in this roller coaster. It took all his effort to choke down something to eat. He had to keep going somehow._

_When the phone rang, he practically jumped out of his skin. His little brother didn't stir, however. This fact didn't reassure him._

"_He-hello?"_

"_Dean? I told you not to use this number unless it's an emergency."_

"_I know, Dad. But it's Sammy, he's really sick, and I don't know what to do," squeaked Dean, his voice cracking._

"_Okay, okay, calm down, son. Describe it to me."_

_Dean related the harrowing last twenty-four hours in a hushed voice, so as not to disturb Sam. Though their dad scolded him for not paying closer attention, he also praised Dean's quick response once things got bad, and for remembering what he'd been taught._

"_I wish I could pick up and leave this instant. I'm so close to being done, I promise," John apologized. "But I can direct you to someone close by who can help. Get a pen and paper."_

_Dean ran over to the hotel room desk, snatched the items, and grabbed the phone again._

"_I'm going to give you the phone number of a doctor who treats hunters. Her name is Sarah Carlson. You tell her where you are, and everything you told me, understand?" After reciting the number—and making Dean read it back—he said, "You're both gonna be fine. I believe in you. Keep doing what you're doing, Dean."_

"_Okay, Dad."_

"_I'll see you boys real soon."_

_As soon as his dad hung up, Dean punched the number for Dr. Carlson into the yellowed keypad. Each ring made him more antsy until, at last, a woman's voice answered._

"_Hello?"_

"_My dad's a hunter, but he's away and my brother needs help," Dean blurted very fast._

"_What? How did you get this number?"_

"_My dad's John Winchester!" Dean forced himself to slow down. "He's busy with a hunt, so he told me to call you. My brother Sam got really sick, and I don't know what else to do. Please, Dad said you would help."_

"_Alright, take it easy. I can help you," the doctor's voice reassured him._

_Dean explained Sam's symptoms once more, answering Dr. Carlson's questions as best he could, such as how much Sam weighed. He could hear her rifling through something while she listened._

"_And you're at the Fairpark Hotel?"_

"_Yeah. Room 118."_

"_Give me some time to get things together, Dean. I'll be over there as quickly as possible. Do you know Morse code?"_

"_Huh? Well, kind of…"_

"_When I knock, I'm going to tap out your name, okay? Just so you know it's me."_

"_Okay."_

"_I'll be there soon."_

_Dean sat in the armchair next to the couch, bouncing his legs anxiously. The sunlight crawled in sharp beams across the room, and slowly disappeared. From time to time, Sam shifted uneasily in his fevered state. Dean refreshed the ice compress on his brother's face. All the time he willed the doctor lady to come faster, to make Sam better. Sam depended on what Dean did, and right now Dean needed help._

_He watched every set of headlights that moved along the dingy blinds over their window. So keen was he to deduce which ones were the doctor that knocks on the door caught him off guard. A series of long and short sounds, with pauses between every few. Dean's brain clicked. Morse Code!_

_He still checked the peephole first; a young, dark-skinned woman stood there with a bag slung on her shoulder. Dean opened the door with the chain still latched._

"_Dr. Carlson?"_

"_You must be Dean." She smiled, pulling her stethoscope and work badge out from under her jacket. "I'm here to help Sam." Dean started to undo the chain, until she stopped him. "Don't you have some tests to do first?"_

"_Oh!" In his desperation, Dean almost forgot. He retrieved a water bottle, salt, a piece of iron, and a small knife from the table. Awkwardly, he splashed her hand with some of the water—holy water, in fact—to no effect. The doctor willingly touched the iron, also with no reaction, took a mouthful of salt (which she spit out, but didn't react to), and cut her own hand with the knife. Dad said it was pure silver._

"_Good job," she commended Dean, allowing him to let her in. Once she bandaged her palm and put on gloves, they both turned their attention to Sam. He finally stirred with all the commotion._

"_Dean…?"_

"_It's okay, Sammy," Dean told Sam. "This is Dr. Carlson, she's a friend of Dad's. She's gonna help you feel better."_


	4. Chapter 4

"_Dean…?"_

"_It's okay, Sammy," Dean told Sam. "This is Dr. Carlson, she's a friend of Dad's. She's gonna help you feel better."_

"_Hi Sam," Dr. Carlson chimed in. Already she was checking his temperature. "104, looks about right. Do your chest and tummy still hurt?"_

_Sam nodded. "You don't have to talk to me like a little kid, though."_

"_My apologies. Dean's going to help you sit up and take your shirt off so I can listen to your heart and lungs, is that okay?"_

_He nodded again. Dean followed instructions, giving his scared little brother a comforting squeeze around the shoulders as he did so. Dr. Carlson listened to various spots on Sam's chest, then his back, her expression concerned._

"_Thank you, Sam," she said when she was finished. "Let's get your shirt back on and get you back under the blanket. I'm going to get you some fresh water while Dean gets you a cool towel for your face." She motioned for Dean to follow her. Once they reached the bathroom, she continued in a low voice. "I'm going to need your help, Dean. As I suspected, your brother has clear symptoms of pneumonia, and I'm going to need to give him two shots of antibiotics. These are big, nasty shots. But they're the best chance he has."_

_Dean swallowed hard. "Okay. Um, just wondering…I didn't listen to him at first when he said he didn't feel good. Is this…my fault?"_

"_Not at all!" Dr. Carlson covered the length of their conversation with running water. "Unfortunately, sometimes things just happen. He might have had a cold that managed to get worse, or refused to wear his hat long enough while the weather changed. You may be responsible for your brother right now, but you did not make him sick."_

_They returned to the couch with the water and towel. Sam was rubbing his chest through the blanket. "It won't stop hurting…"_

"_I know," said Dr. Carlson. She began pulling the necessary supplies out of her bag. Sam's eyes got big when he spotted the large, packaged syringes she pulled out._

"_Dean…" he whimpered. Dean budged him into a sitting position so he could hold his miserable little brother. "I don't wanna get shots…"_

"_I know, I'm here, Sammy. This is the best way to get you better," Dean tried to tell him. Sam's cheek was so hot against his shoulder._

"_I'm scared…"_

"_I'm not going anywhere." Sympathy tore and Dean's stomach when he had to keep Sam from shrinking out of the doctor's grip. "Here, squeeze my hand. Tight as you can, Sammy."_

"_This is just to clean your arm," Dr. Carlson reassured him, showing the boys the white alcohol pad. Still Sam flinched when she touched his skin._

"_Don't look, Sammy. Just focus on me. I'm right here. It's okay, Sammy. It's gonna be okay." Dean felt like a traitor as he pulled his brother's arm out to be stabbed._

"_Ahahow!" Sam howled. He twisted in Dean's arms, a big tear squeezing out of his tightly shut eyes. Dr. Carlson finished with the syringe and covered the puncture with a bandaid. Then she made worried eye contact with Dean._

"_She's gotta do one more in the other arm," croaked Dean. What a time for his voice to be changing._

"No_!"_

"_We're almost done, and then you're gonna start feeling better."_

"_Noo, please!" Sam's face was red from tension and fever. Dean could feel the pounding heartbeat as he held Sam down._

"_Sammy, you're going to get other people's attention if you keep screaming like that," Dean scolded._

"_I don't care! Make her stop!"_

"_I'm sorry, Sam," Dr. Carlson soothed. "You have to let me finish."_

_Dean wished there was a way to stop. Sam's struggling was making him tired. Furthermore, he felt increasingly horrible for having to pin Sam like this. This was something a parent did, not an older brother! Brief anger flashed through him that their dad wasn't here to handle the situation._

_Sam's cries and tears renewed with the second shot. Dr. Carlson hurried to clean everything up. By the time she pulled out the last of her supplies—a plastic pouch filled with liquid, a tube, and yet another needle—Sam was tiring out at last._

"_We'll wait a bit for this. I want to make sure your brother stays hydrated until he can handle eating and drinking again, or we'll have new problems to address." She waited for Dean to acknowledge this. "I also have a sample bottle of liquid antibiotics that I want Sam to start taking tomorrow morning. If it's alright with you, I'm going to stay here for the night, just to make sure everything's okay."_

_Relief flooded through Dean's exhausted body. He wasn't going to be left alone._

"_Since I can't give a full prescription without your dad being here, I need to step outside and call him. What's his current phone number?"_

_Dean gave it to her, hoping his dad didn't bite her head off like he'd done earlier. When she shut the door behind herself, his attention returned to Sam, still huddled in his lap._

"_You promised you wouldn't let anyone hurt me," his little brother mumbled._

"_I'm sorry, Sammy. We had to give you the medicine." Dean brushed Sam's shaggy air out of his face. "It's all over now. Think you can eat something?"_

"_Not really."_

"_I'll put some crackers next to your water if you want them later. We should both get some sleep." Carefully slipping out from underneath Sam, Dean grabbed the crackers and a granola bar for himself._

"_I wanna sleep with you," Sam said when Dean came back._

"_Oh, okay, I guess. But we'd have to move you to the bed. Let me get the other stuff first."_

_Once snacks, water, and when Dean thought about it, the trash can (just in case) were all in place, he helped Sam stumble over to the double bed they shared when Dad was around. Dean made up a fresh ice towel for Sam's face. Already, however, the fever didn't seem quite as intense._

_As soon as Dean climbed onto the bed, Sam curled up right next to him. His sick little brother drifted off immediately, head propped on Dean's chest. A couple minutes later, Dr. Carlson snuck back into the room._

"_Your dad's on his way," she whispered. "Is Sam asleep?"_

_Dean nodded with as little movement as he could._

"_Good. The medicine I gave him has a drowsy effect. We shouldn't have any trouble giving him the IV now." Despite her own obvious exhaustion, the doctor quickly attached the tubed bag to Sam's pale hand. She removed the picture frame above the bed so she could hang the bag on the nail. Clear liquid dripped down._

"_How long does he have to have that?" asked Dean._

"_Just until morning, I think. By then hopefully his appetite will start coming back."_

"_Okay."_

_Dr. Carlson squeezed Dean's free hand. "You were very brave, and a huge help tonight, Dean. Sam is lucky to have a brother like you."_

"_I know." Dean glanced at Sam's sleeping form next to him._

"_Get some sleep. You've earned it."_

_As the doctor settled herself in the armchair, with her jacket for a cover, Dean felt relaxed for the first time in two days._


	5. Chapter 5

Chest heaving, Sam broke the tree line a few hundred feet from their motel. His phone was dying, so first he needed his computer to find the closest doctor's office. His silver bullet-loaded gun remained constantly at the ready.

"Geez, that's another ten blocks!" he gasped as Google gave him his answer—an urgent care clinic near the center of town. Sam massaged a stitch in his ribs before heading out once more.

His breath fogged the air ahead of him. Dingy snow slushed under his worn boots. _I'm gonna need new ones soon._ His watch told him it was going on ten o'clock at night, but surely even a small town like this didn't get _this_ dead normally. Then again, not as many potential victims to get in the werewolf's way.

Speaking of which…

Sam rounded the final corner, the clinic in sight when he heard the panting. An animalistic sound laced with the beginning of a snarl. He bolted.

The thudding paws tore through the snow from behind his left shoulder. So the monster had circled around to try heading him off. Smart bastard. There was no usable cover along the strip that contained the clinic. No cubby holes to duck into while trying to gain entry. Only glass fronts and doors.

Rock-solid paws hit Sam between the shoulder blades just as he reached the far sidewalk. He flew toward the pavement—and the werewolf, carried through the air by its own momentum, hit the glass. Jagged pieces showered them both. As they staggered back up, Sam spotted rough bandages around his assailant's torso. So it was injured. Sam loosed a shot, but it only grazed the beast's bicep. However, the sting of silver was enough to scare it back a few steps, and Sam raced past it, slamming doors as he made for the back rooms. He picked the storage lock in record time, just as the door behind him started to splinter. Barely enough time to lock himself in and bolster the door with a couple filing cabinets.

"Dean, if you die on me after this, I'll resurrect you just so I can kill you myself," he muttered. His barricade suddenly shook, growling. Sam's mind flooded with images of what Hellhounds could look like, imagined the werewolf transforming into one, dragging him back to Lucifer's cage. No! It couldn't be real! In desperation, he grabbed his scarred palm, and dug so fiercely into it that he opened what started as a small cut from the shattered storefront. The terrifying mirage slowly faded.

"Damn, being on the verge of mental breakdown sucks…"

No time for pity; he was here to get supplies. Syringes and other basics they could use were easy enough to find by the light of his cell phone. Sam flexed his shoulders as he worked. He luckily hadn't encountered teeth, but the werewolf's claws had dug furrows into his back. His coat was unlikely salvageable after tonight. _Now where are the antibiotics?_

He finally came across a locked cabinet, which he picked, then jimmied open with his knife. He would need at least two kinds, in case one wasn't effective. Each precious vial got nestled in gauze to protect it. In this case, he only took what they would absolutely need. Medicine racked up cost fast.

Sam realized the door had gone silent. Who was hunter and who was prey now? The storage room had no windows, leaving him with only one way out. He secured the bag he brought from the motel, checked his gun, and quietly as possible, edged his barricade open enough to get through.

The hall was wrecked, but empty.

"Great."

Nothing moved in the wreckage of the clinic. The longer this lasted, the more uneasy Sam felt. What trap could he walk into? Or worse, what if the wolf had backtracked to Dean? Monsters that lived long enough started to pick up on hunters' tactics. Perhaps they really had stepped in it this time.

Instinct told him to freeze just before moving out into open air. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. At the last possible moment he registered bringing his gaze—and gun—upward.

He caught the horrible werewolf/Hellhound vision in the chest as it launched from within the sidewalk awning. Unfortunately, that meant it still knocked Sam flat as it fell. Pieces of glass stuck him from behind when they landed hard.

"Ugh!"

Untangling from a shapeshifting form proved difficult. The streetlights revealed Cory Wells, wealthy heir to the town's chief benefactors, a practiced woodsman…and quite dead. Time to go. Sam wiped his hands and gun on what parts of his clothing weren't already bloody. Then he checked his bag, thankfully sitting at his hip instead of back. All supplies were intact.

The trek back was long (especially with his injuries and exhaustion), but at least safer. Still, his adrenaline kept pumping with the uncertainty of Dean's condition. The longest part of the night was yet to come.

**Sorry, I'm a notorious cliffhanger-ist =P I also don't want to create too much confusion if chapters are broken up too often without clearly defining what is present day and what is flashback. Italics aren't always the easiest to pick out, I know. More to come soon; thanks for sticking with me! ^-^**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry for the confusion, everyone! I totally didn't realize that I uploaded the wrong doc for chapter six! Thankfully, the way the chapters are broken up, it wasn't utter nonsense...until I ended up with two identical chapters the next time I updated. Just some extra brotherly angst and caring ^-^ Thanks for bearing with me...**

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><p>Sam checked his watch again when he spotted the cabin—one-thirty in the morning. Every inch of him hurt. His eyelids kept trying to close. Once or twice, he stumbled on some lumpy thing hidden in the fresh snow. And the temperature had dropped, definitely. His fingers were completely numb.<p>

"Dean? He whispered into the cabin. No response. His brother likely passed out at some point despite efforts to keep guard.

Except Dean wasn't just unconscious. Slumped where Sam had left him, his breathing had become raspy and labored, and his fever noticeably higher. Sam agitated his tortured palm before any visions could even crop up. He had to get Dean safely cooled down, fast.

"Remember what I warned you, dude. Don't crap out on me now!" He dragged Dean to the walk-in shower. Knowing wet clothes wouldn't help later, he stripped Dean down to his boxers. Then for the antibiotics. Sam managed to find a good vein to dose his brother, followed by a lukewarm shower to (hopefully) lower Dean's temperature without sending him into shock. Out on their own like this, it was dicey business.

Between temperature checks, Sam inspected his own wounds. Several shards of glass had to be removed. He retrieved a bottle of whiskey from Dean's pack (seriously?), drank some of it, and splashed more on the open gashes. That should hold until morning. Dean's case was more pressing.

Twenty minutes later, both of them much cleaner from the shower, the fever seemed to be responding to Sam's efforts. He felt comfortable returning to dry clothes and cold compresses. Thankfully, several blankets in the cabin closet offered impromptu towels as well as warded off chills.

Once Sam had Dean back on the cot, he himself collapsed into the ratty loveseat, which he had pulled over to face Dean. His stinging wounds didn't matter, nor did the fact that the loveseat was too short to stretch out on. He realized he should give Dean the second half of that round of antibiotics. His body was loathe to get up again, however. He barely kept enough focus to inject the stuff, and sleep claimed him as soon as he hit the seat, still worrying at his bad hand…

_Sam looked worlds better when Dean woke late the next morning. Dr. Carlson had removed the IV without disturbing either of them, and was now working on breakfast. Dean barely remembered the last time someone had done that for him…_

"_You certainly look better," the doctor commented, meeting his gaze. "Sleep okay?"_

"_Yeah." Next to him, Sam began to stir. When his eyes opened, they were much brighter than the scared, miserable gaze Dean had seen over the last couple days. Even better, his little brother almost immediately reached for the water and crackers on the nightstand. Dean couldn't help but smile._

"_What? I'm hungry," Sam told him._

"_Good to have you back, Sammy."_

_Dr. Carlson joined them, holding a medicine cup and a bottle. "First, Sam, I need you to take some of this. Then you can start eating. Dean, there's scrambled eggs and toast on the table for you."_

_Sam wrinkled his nose at the prospect of more medicine. Dean squeezed his shoulder, and got up to get his food. _She must have run out and got eggs while we were asleep, _he thought. A hazy image of watching his mom cook breakfast floated in his mind. Baby Sam wiggled in his carrier on the next chair. John Winchester strode in, kissed his wife on the cheek, and sat down with his boys. That life was long gone, though._

"_Everything okay?" Dr. Carlson returned with the medicine bottle, now watching Dean closely._

"_It's great, I'm just…not used to it, is all…" The doctor lady may be nice, but Dean didn't want to share his old memories with her. No point in crying over what he couldn't have. "Did Dad say how far away he was when you called him?"_

"_No, but he said he'd be here by morning. You'll see him soon."_

_Dean kept to himself as he finished eating. After rinsing his plate, he went to retrieve his magazine from the floor next to the armchair._

"_Dean?" called Sam. "Can you bring me my book?"_

"_Fine." Dean was actually more than happy to do it; he just couldn't resist acting like it was so much extra work. That's how they interacted. He plopped the book into Sam's lap. "Don't get used to the maid service."_

"_I need to grab something from my car. Be right back," said Dr. Carlson. She stepped outside._

"_Hey Dean?" Sam began in the quiet. "I just wanna say thanks, for all this. I know it got kinda crazy for you…"_

"_What are big brothers for?" Dean quipped, pulling Sam into a one-armed hug. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you. Remember that." He settled in once more next to his brother. Sam nestled into Dean's shoulder. His fever was already much fainter._

_A key scraped in the door lock. Dean instinctively fumbled for the handgun under his pillow, until he caught sight of his dad's haggard, confused face peeking in. Evidently he had driven all night, nonstop. But all of that melted into relief when he saw his sons both awake and watching him._

"_Dad!" Sam cried happily._

"_Why is the door unlocked?" John sputtered, dropping his stuff and checking the hotel room._

"_Dr. Carlson just went to her car, that's all," replied Dean. Echoing his words, the doctor slipped in and locked the door behind her._

"_John, you're back. Good," she observed. "I went ahead and ran outside to get my prescription pad. Here's what Sam needs to take for the next two weeks. He's already made huge improvements. I think he'll be fine." Dr. Carlson set about gathering her things. "I'll go ahead and get out of your way. Your boys have missed you."_

_Once she left, John strode over to the bed. "Hey there, Sammy. Sorry I had to stay away like that. How do you feel?"_

"_Better. I'm still kinda achy. The shots sucked, but Dean took care of me," declared Sam. He threw his arms around their dad's neck. John tousled his younger son's hair, his face showing a tenderness that rarely appeared anymore. Dean was glad—and a little jealous, all at once._

"_I bet he did." That tender gaze finally focused on Dean. "Good job, son. You did great. Come here."_

_Dean smiled and accepted the hug while Sam launched into everything that had happened in their dad's absence. They were a family again. True, it was mainly because of Sam's illness. How long it would last was anyone's guess. But it didn't matter. For now, they were together._


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, to those of you who may not catch my other notice-chapter 6 was actually the wrong document! I have rectified this, thanks to trisha2364, and while no glaring plot points were missed, the proper brotherly interactions are back in place. Sorry!**

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><p>Streaky sunlight reached Dean's face, making him wince. His first real awareness was of his strangely damp boxers, and nothing else but blankets. <em>What the hell…? <em>How long was he out? What happened to the werewolf? Sam! Where was Sam?

Luckily, he didn't have far to look. Sam was sprawled awkwardly on the nearby loveseat, motionless. His long, dangling limbs would have been comical if not for the blood covering him. Despite the almost immediate wave of dizziness and nausea, Dean scrambled to rise.

"Sam? Sammy! Don't do this to me, you gotta be okay. Sammy!" he croaked.

His little brother roused with a stiff, sleep-weighted jump. "Dean? Dude what gives?"

"I'll tell you what gives! You're sitting here playing doctor for me while you bleed all over the place?"

"While I—what? Oh…no! Dean most of this is from the werewolf. We tangled while I was out getting meds for you."

Dean snatched him into a tight hug—only to have Sam arch his back against Dean's touch. A sharp gasp escaped him.

"Liar," insisted Dean. He was still woozy, but forced Sam to sit and remove the layers of ruined clothing. A number of small gashes surrounded wicked claw marks on his brother's back. "You were just going to blow this off? I'm sick, not stupid. Anyway, you're gonna have to wash all that out before we head back to town."

"We're not going anywhere until you kick whatever bug you have," Sam protested. "And I swear, most of the blood is the werewolf's. I shot him in midair; he fell on top of me. No bites, just claws, and the rest is from landing on broken glass."

"Who'd it turn out to be, anyway?"

"Cory Wells."

"Damn," sighed Dean. "That'll make getting out of here fun. Where's the body?"

Sam ran his fingers through his messy hair. "Um, Main Street?"

"Really, Sam? Great. You're in for a world of pain if the resulting witch hunt does anything to my car. They already didn't trust us."

"Like I've never heard that before." Sam stretched his stiff muscles, wincing when the movement pulled at his shredded skin.

"These need taken care of, man," Dean pressed again.

"I cleaned them thoroughly last night."

"No, someone needs to look at them right."

Sam pushed Dean away. "You're not in any condition to doctor me!"

"The hell I'm not. Keep your ass where it is while I get the first aid supplies. You couldn't reach half of that if you wanted to, anyway."

Sam growled in frustration, but stayed put. He knew most of his wounds could too easily get infected. Still, he was more concerned that Dean not push himself. The older Winchester needed rest and meds.

Dean returned wearing a mask, gloves, and holding the first aid kit. Sam almost burst out laughing. His brother took it with a shrug. "Like I said. Sick, not stupid."

Sam yelped as fresh antiseptic hit the raw gashes. Thankfully, Dean determined none of them needed stitches. He simply applied a patchwork of gauze to protect the worst of Sam's injuries. And promptly flopped down next to him on the loveseat.

"Did a number on your hand again, too, I see. Still fighting with your head?"

"Dean…"

"_Give_ _it_."

Sighing, Sam proffered his bad hand. In a morbid way, he kind of liked having the open wound better than the residual soreness of his scars. The sharper pain cleared his mind faster. But he knew such a notion was impractical, and allowed Dean to clean and bandage what he'd done.

"See? Gotta take care of my pain-in-the-ass little brother," Dean wheezed. "Whew. That all was harder than I anticipated."

"You need to rest up, Dean. There's nothing wrong with letting someone else take charge for awhile."

"Maybe. I just always pictured Mom, or Lisa, or some hot chick in a bikini having to take care of me. No offense, you're not a hot chick."

"But I am your brother," Sam pointed out. He grabbed the whiskey bottle from last night, offering it to Dean, who smiled.

"True."

(This line serves no purpose, btw. I just couldn't get rid of it. Stupid Office Word…)


	8. Chapter 8

Epilogue (kind of)

Two days later, once Dean had worked through the worst of the illness (and Sam utilized every resource he had to NOT catch it), they packed up the rest of their things from the motel and prepared to head out.

"Good thing we paid for a whole week in advance. We could have really stepped in it," said Dean, throwing his duffel in the Impala's trunk.

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Because that whole fiasco we just went through _wasn't_ stepping in it? I had to leave you alone and defenseless in a werewolf's territory to save your life."

"I was not defenseless. You're making me sound like a girl."

"You couldn't hold your head straight, much less a gun."

"Eh, it's all a matter of perspective."

Sam insisted on driving, with Dean still taking heavy meds. They passed through the center of town on the way to the state route they needed. By this time, the mess of the clinic front was largely cleared, and the broken panes boarded. Claw marks in the awning might be hard to explain, though. That was not what caught their attention. Just beyond Main Street, a contingent of flashing police cars sat outside one of the bigger houses.

"Hey, that's the Wells house, isn't it?" Dean commented. "You think they'd still be making that kind of racket over Cory?"

"Dunno. It's something big." Sam caught sight of the reporter chick who had helped them ferret down information at the beginning of the hunt. He slowed the car down as he caught up to her, walking away from the scene, writing furiously in her notebook. "Angela! What's going on?"

She jerked her head up in surprise. "Oh—I didn't know you boys were still in town. You kinda disappeared all of a sudden. Yeah, the news just broke this morning. Did you hear about the night Cory was killed?"

Both boys nodded.

"Well, they managed to trace his whereabouts back to the one of the family cabins. What the police didn't expect was to find a whole different crime scene at the other cabin."

"What crime scene?" Sam and Dean chorused.

Angela glanced carefully around her, and lowered her voice. "His dad! The night Cory was killed, Jim Wells was out at the other cabin—with an underage runaway. They found her drugged and locked in there, half-clothed. Turns out the old man has kept a haven out there for shady activities going back _years_. Reopened a bunch of unsolved assault cases where girls had been found wandering around town in the early morning hours, with no memory of how they got that way." She swallowed bitterly. "They think Cory discovered his dad's secret, and got run down trying to get help."

For once, the boys were dumbstruck. All of that happened while they were hiding out in the woods, hoping they didn't become suspects once again? The coincidence, the cover that had presented itself, was simply wild!

"Well, thanks," Sam choked out at last. "I hope they get everything sorted out. We got our next assignment, so we're hitting the road. Best of luck to you."

"You too. Hope you got what you were looking for." Angela stepped back to let them go, and waved.

_If you only knew the half of it…_ He drove on before anyone could get suspicious of their presence. Dean didn't speak until they had made it well out of town.

"A serial rapist, really? Dude, that is beyond twisted what happened back there."

Sam shook his head with disbelief. "I know. I mean, I had a feeling there was some crazy stuff going on out there, based on my research. I didn't give it much attention because it wasn't part of the case. But I _never_ would have guessed we could have uncovered something like that."

They drove a while in silence, contemplating what Angela had told them. She said the evidence went back for years. How many young women might have been affected? It was enough to make Sam shiver despite the sun making his coat too hot. Monsters he could understand. They ran on animal instincts, or selfish desires and emotions, or were simply so twisted in nature that right and wrong didn't matter to them. Monsters could be relatively predictable. They were easy to recognize as evil.

But humans? Human free will could be taken to frightening extremes. They could be evil, and yet they weren't so far different from the rest of the human race. And they had the uncanny ability to completely hide under the façade of being like everyone else. Sometimes that was scarier than facing any supernatural force…


End file.
